


Green

by RebellionOfTheFly



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Internalized Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25377835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebellionOfTheFly/pseuds/RebellionOfTheFly
Summary: Green carnations: A flower sported by Oscar Wilde and his followers.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	Green

**Author's Note:**

> The inherent pain of being gay and being working class collide.

Set jaw. Goosebumps. Skinny. _Worryingly_ skinny. "Yes, Sir," He had said, chin tilted up and exposing the fresh, sore red across His jaw. "Piss off," He had wanted to say. He wished He'd say it the same way His dad would - effortlessly, confidently, daring to be challenged - but the words just couldn't pass His lips.

"Good lad."

And, He'd been sent on His way, back into the school yard. The Boy was there, bruised knuckles and a sneer on his face. He wished He could hate him. Wished so hard it made His muscles ache and His heart hurt and His lungs press, hard, against his ribs. (He was wishing a lot of things recently. None came true.)

The Boy had green eyes, but He didn't like to think about that. Not that shade. Anything but. The shade pushed His thoughts towards carnations, tucked in lapels, and the day that His mam threw out the vase of them which sat on the mantelpiece. "What would the neighbours think?" She asked, once the green of the petals could hardly be seen beneath the green of rot. "What would the neighbours think?"

And, He always bruises green. The colour just escapes from Him, flooding out at every chance. He can't keep it concealed. That must be what they look at, when their eyes fix on Him. They must see it - see what He's done, what He's thought, what He's been. They must see the stains of green across His history.

He was sixteen when the police dragged His neighbour away. The neighbour who would smile when they saw eachother. The neighbour who He'd always known. "Arson." The hatred He felt was green.

Years passed, as they tend to do. The uniform was hideously, garishly green, but He swallowed the feeling down. It was the right shade of green. Darker than carnations; Darker than His hatred; Darker than the shame and sick which rises up His throat when they tell Him that He's too "rough" to climb the ranks. _He's nothing like that_ , He wants to insist. _He's always been like them. His home was a squalor. His family were pigs. He hates all that He was and all that He wasn't. He hates anything that isn't them_. But, the words just couldn't pass His lips. "Yes, Sir."

He dies, and he sees green. Green, like the flowers his mam pressed flat in books. (He mustn't think about that.) Green, like the sprawling land He loves and protected. (He mustn't think about that.) Green, like carnations.


End file.
